Probable Theories
by ReLies
Summary: Woof Martingale, victor of the Eighteenth Annual Hunger Games, thought the battle for survival was over. But after his victory propels him into the bustling Capitol, darker purposes and traitorous plots threaten to destroy the peace he fought so hard to achieve. The now-elderly man's sinister past is revealed in this story: perhaps his loss of memory was all a facade.


The screen flickered on.

There was no visible ground: fog obscured everything, and the bridges were too high up anyway. Suspended from nothing with nothing, the rickety wooden structures spanned infinite gaps, their origins and destinations lost in the mist. They were stacked, one upon another, like some malicious spider web, hosting the torture and terror that through some miracle he had braved.

He turned it off. No sense reminding himself of everything he sought to forget. It was over now, that was the important thing. It was over, and he wasn't going back.

He pulled the beautifully patterned blanket back over his shoulders and stared, unfeeling, at the gilding around him. White, everything was white: the color of peace, the color of innocence, the color of purity, the color of hospitals. He didn't need a hospital anymore. He wasn't ill anymore. Where was the color? Where was the life? True, it was a Victor's Village, but a village for one.

He fingered the corner of the blanket. How many times had he sewn ones exactly like this? Surely the answer approached infinite proportions. The Capitol's thirst for consumption would never be quenched, that he knew. Of course, now, being a Victor, living in the luxury he despised, he was considered one of them. One of the elite.

One of the evil, selfish bastards who cared nothing for their people.

The Hunger Games were relatively new when he was born. It was still a distant phenomenon, the reapings seemed exciting, the games engrossing. They were some fairytale, promising a happy ending for the good little boys and girls and providing spooky cautionary tales to the bad.

But that's all they were: tales, stories, fantasies. They were never real, so to speak. Until, of course, at sixteen, Woof Martingale was chosen for the Eighteenth Annual Hunger Games. Then reality came bursting through every crack in his family's rickety shed, knocking on every door and window, seeping through every floorboard.

He shivered.

"Mister Martingale, please visit the styling rooms in preparation for your interview today. The transport will arrive in two hours."

The voice of the computer was never good to hear. Always reminding, always reminding, and at times when the thing he wanted least was to remember.

Standing, he let the blanket fall to the floor and strode across the massive hall to the styling chambers. How long, he wondered, before he could live his life again?

They said it was his eyes that won the games for him. Grey, icy, and piercing when angry, but warm and welcome when he smiled. They won him the sponsors, they won him the fabric, they won him the parachute, they won him life. But was this death of a life worth much more?

He stripped in front of the mirror before stepping into the shower. He had a wiry body: hardened from life in the outer districts, but pale as the white walls around him. Factory work did not lend itself to tanning.

Black hair, grey eyes, white skin. It was as if all the color had been washed out his life.

He shivered.

The warmth of the shower came as a relief, and he was sorely tempted never to leave the peaceful depths of the falling rain. Heat was fleeting, however: he had an appointment to keep.

He didn't bother dressing again as he stepped out of the glass box. The stylists would take care of that. It was their job. It was their purpose, oddly enough. What was his?

Still dripping, he walked into the adjoining rooms. His team of stylists went to work, and Woof had long since grown accustomed to their chatter. Tuning out the buzz, he closed his eyes. Not sleeping, exactly. Just resting. Dreaming. Imagining.

"Woof?" asked the master stylist, prompting him to open his eyes. "What do you think? I thought the light blue would work well, considering the arena."

Color. That was good, right?

He stood before the mirror, resplendent in some strange concoction of turquoise and white. A suit of some sort, he supposed. Oh well. It would work. It would make him look like a Capitol native.

"Mister Martingale, please report to the loading docks. The transport is arriving."

"Thank you, Azuma. It is perfect."

"You are welcome, as always. Now hurry! Do not keep the Capitol waiting."

Woof nodded and exited the chambers, doing his best to keep the apprehension from his shoulders. He was seventeen. This wasn't fair, was it? He always believed that there had to be a better life somewhere, but this was not his idea of a better life.

There was the door to the platform. One would think he was used to heights by now. Rather, the image of the twelve-year-old toppling over the edge was emblazoned in his mind.

The hovercraft lay across the asphalt pavement. Woof began the long walk towards the transport, careful to stay in the center of the walkway. He did not wish to see how high up his palace actually was, or how removed he was from the town below. He did not wish to be reminded.

There he stood. The immortal, insufferable Andrei Markov. Escort for District Eight.

"Ah, Woof! Come, come, hurry! I have most wonderful news!"

Woof wondered how much trouble he would be in if he murdered this insipid man. Probably very little: the Capitol aught to thank him. He would be doing them all a favor.

"Mr. Markov. Nice to see you."

"How many times must I tell you? My name is Andrei. Not 'mister.'"

"I would laugh if that was funny." Sarcasm never helped, he knew that. But still. It was fun. Andrei broke into nervous laughter.

"Always the clown, Woof. Please, climb aboard."

Andrei backed up the boarding hatchway, gesturing Woof inside. Reluctantly, the teen climbed up the staircase, and the device folded up as the hovercraft took off.

The machine had been fitted with an entire Capitol dining room, extravagant chandeliers dangling from the ceiling, long tables spanning its length. Food was ever-present on these tables, but Woof was never hungry. Not even for revenge.

Andrei had already seated himself at the head of one of the tables, and Woof sat down reluctantly across from him.

"Woof, I have wonderful news."

This never bade well.

"Then what is it? Has my interview been canceled?"

"Well, yes-" Relief. So much relief.

"Then what am I here for? Let me off."

"Something more… important has come up. Donald Grimmitt has requested your presence."

Donald Grimmitt? The name was unfamiliar.

"Who is this man, Andrei? Why does he want to see me?"

"He was one of your sponsors during the games, but now he has risen to become Head Gamemaker. I surely do not know why he wishes to see you, but it must be good." The man winked at Woof as he drooled over the delicacies laid out upon the table. "Might I have your permission to consume?"

"Yes. Fine. Whatever. Why do you ask my permission?"

"I am your escort! It is protocol!" Protocol. Everything followed protocol: the Capitol allowed for no errors.

Woof grunted, picking up one of the burnished silver forks that adorned the table. A year ago he hadn't seen anything wrong with eating with his hands.

The rest of the trip passed in silence.

…


End file.
